Something Like Home
by Tell-Me-Tales
Summary: The reunion with his twin brother didn't quite go the way Stan was hoping it would. Honestly, he just doesn't know what to make of the stranger that came out of his twin's freaky basement-portal. Did they just become triplets? Can that happen? For once, it looks like his brainy brother is almost as lost as he is. [Mentioned Alcohol][AO3 CrossPost]
1. Collision Course

**Dimension 52**  
 **Gravity Falls, OR**  
 **February 22, 1982**

"Stan! Stanford! Help -"

His twin's desperate cry is cut off in a yelp of surprise when something comes hurtling out of the glowing portal and crashes directly into him. Stan gapes. He has no idea what's going on anymore.

"Stop squirming!" shouts a demanding voice over the background noise of all the machinery, "I need to get to that blasted shutdown button. Our current trajectory will work perfectly if you'll. Just. Stop. Struggling!"

His brother doesn't show any sign of having even heard the stranger, prompting a growl of frustration from the figure - Man? Alien? - dressed head-to-toe in black. Stan's wary of any stranger he crosses paths with at this point in his life, but a way to shut off the crazy scifi-portal sounds great right about now.

He watches anxiously as the two drift through the air until - "Aha!" - the black clothed figure manages to grasp what Stan thinks may be some kind of overgrown switch sticking out of the floor. The unknown figure then proceeds to use its new position to kick one twin into the other. Both men go down in a tangled heap on the side of the room where gravity is still working (mostly) like it should. "Now I only need to pop the cap and - Bingo!" A siren starts to wail and a sound that's almost like an explosion, but not quite, comes from the portal.

"No!" His twin's weight suddenly disappears from on top of him. "Do you have any idea of what you've just done?!"

"Oh, for pity's -"

Stan groans and forces himself onto his elbows in time to see the stranger subdue his hysterical brother in a movement too efficient and practiced to be anything less than intimidating. Who is this guy?

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I _do_ know what I've just done," the stranger answers in an indignant tone from his place on top of his twin's back, "and you should be _thanking me_ for saving you from spending the rest of your days wandering the multiverse! But you're still worried about that thrice damned portal, aren't you?! Wake up! The longer that thing is operational, the more chances you give Bill to take over this dimension!"

There's a new layer to the tension in the room that's thick enough even Stan, though he doesn't understand or have the context for it, can pick up on. Before anything else can be said, Stan manages to find his way to his feet again. "Hey!" he yells, drawing attention to the fact that he's still in the room, "Get off my brother!"

The figure turns to look at him, still straddling his twin's back and pinning his arm in a position that simply can _not_ be comfortable. The other's face remains hidden from view thanks to the goggles and scarf it's wearing. "Oh. Hello, Stanley," it says, the calm tone a complete departure from the earlier yelling, "I didn't notice you before, but I suppose I should have expected your presence here given the circumstances." It looks back down at its captive, and warns, "I'll let you up; but if you attack me again, I _will_ defend myself."

Stan's head is spinning. He still has no idea what's going on. "Okay," he says loudly as the black-shrouded stranger releases his brother and stands, "First off, my name is 'Stanford.' _His_ ," he points at his twin, who is still struggling against gravity to get back to his feet, "name is 'Stanley.'"

"Oh, would I be corr-"

Stan isn't done yet and he has no problem with talking right over the stranger in order to ask his questions, "Now, who are you? And would someone please explain to me what the hell is going on here?"

"Ah, my apologies. You're quite right. Introductions _are_ in order. I sometimes forget that after a jump." One hand pulls the scarf down while the other removes the goggles and simultaneously knocks the hood off its head. This motion is also very practiced, but that little fact goes largely unnoted as Stan's jaw drops now that he is finally able to see the other's face. "My name is Stanford Filbrick Pines," he smiles and holds out a hand to shake, "Would I be correct in assuming that is also your name, and that your brother's full name is 'Stanley Jacob Pines'?"

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	2. Echoes

Ford waits patiently with his arm extended to shake. He watches as the other Stanford glances over his shoulder and suddenly snaps his mouth closed - likely in perfect synchronicity with the man still behind him.

"You're me?" Stanford asks in a voice of clear disbelief.

"Actually, unless I'm somehow mistaken, I'm an extradimensional counterpart to your twin," he corrects, still stubbornly waiting. He's found that if he can secure a handshake, things tend to go smoother. He's never been able to figure out _why_ it seems to work, simply that it does. Perhaps it merely denotes how trusting or open a dimension's people are; or perhaps it has to do with the reassurance that comes with being able to touch something to confirm that it's real; perhaps it is something altogether different from anything Ford has ever theorized on the matter. "I've found the names are a something of a coin toss between dimensions. It usually depends on who was born first."

Stanford obviously still has his doubts. "...Right." The other man reaches out to accept the handshake but aborts the movement partway through the gesture, retracting the arm with a harsh breath hissed out from between his teeth. The man clutches his right shoulder with the opposite hand. He leans back against the wall behind him for support with a groan. It isn't long before he's not standing at all, but sitting on the ground instead.

"Stanford!" the other twin cries, ignoring Ford in favor of checking on his brother.

"Oh..." the injured twin moans, "Almost forgot about that. Heh."

Ford finally lowers his hand. He's willing to bet that Stanford will have a serious burn covering his right shoulder and that it has yet to be treated. He slips into the basement lab's control room in order to retrieve the first aid kit that should be stored there. If memory serves - and if this dimension is indeed as similar to his home dimension as it first appears - then Stanley should have a fully stocked kit in the left, bottom-most drawer of the desk across from the portal's control panel. Ford is more than a little gratified to be correct in this instance.

"You have your choice," he announces as he re-enters the other room, "You can either see to the post-shutdown procedure for the portal and the safe uncoupling of the fuel line - which, frankly, is something you should have done long before you let anyone else down here - or you can tend to your brother. I'll take care of whichever task you leave."

Stanley looks up at him with wide eyes. "I -" His gaze darts from Ford's face, to his wounded brother, to the portal, and back again. "I can't trust you. Not with either task. You could be working for Bill."

Ford watches as his younger counterpart struggles. Fear, exhaustion, desperation, suspicion, and so much more weighing down on him. He remembers this. He remembers Cipher pushing him to the brink of madness. He remembers the feeling of being stretched so thin that he was sure he would snap like a cheap rubber band.

Ford sighs and falls into a crouch in front of the twins. He sets the first aid kit on the floor between the three of them. "You're afraid of him," he states directly to Stanley, "That's good. You _should_ be afraid of him and all that he has planned for your dimension. But you can't let yourself be controlled by that fear, either, or Cipher will be able to use it against you and _this_ -" Ford raps his knuckles against the side of his own head. Both twins' eyes widen at the resulting sound of ringing metal: Stanford's in shocked fear, and Stanley's in manic hope. "- won't make a bit of difference. You need to be able to _think_ beyond your fears."

Stanley reaches out tentatively. "M-may I... ?" Ford nods and forces himself to remain still as Stanley lightly knocks his knuckles against the side of Ford's head, causing the sound to repeat - if at a reduced volume compared to Ford's earlier demonstration. "You, you're me? My counterpart from a different dimension?"

"Yes."

Stanley's face brightens and he looks at the portal in something like awe. "It _works_ ," he breathes.

"NO!" Ford says, his voice harsh, "I know what you're thinking, and I can tell you now that entire line of thought is nothing more than folly and hubris. It will bring about the ruin of this entire dimension; the portal _must_ be dismantled. We should have listened to Fiddleford the first time."

Stanley freezes. "Fiddleford? That still..." He swallows thickly.

Ford presses his advantage. "Yes, the incident happened in my dimension as well. I was foolish and refused to listen to reason until it was too late. I haven't seen my home dimension in twelve years and I likely never will again. If I do manage to somehow find my way back, I have no idea what Bill may have done to it in the interim. You have a chance, now, to avoid making those same mistakes that I made. You should take it."

"I, I," Stanley releases a shaky breath and runs a hand through his hair, "You're right. I just didn't want to admit -" He shakes his head and leaves the sentence unfinished. "I'll see to the portal. I can... I can trust you with Stanford?" he asks, the hesitance is clear in his voice.

Ford's response comes quickly. "Yes, though I'd like to take him up to the bathroom. It will be easier to treat him there."

"That's -" Stanley licks his lips nervously, "It's a good idea."

"Uh, hate to interrupt," Stanford's annoyed tone makes it very clear that is not actually the case, "but do I get any say in this?"

Ford raises an eyebrow and asks Stanley, "You kicked him into the side of the control panel and burned his shoulder?"

Stanley's response is short, softly spoken, and practically drowned in guilt. "Yes."

"Right, then," Ford turns his attention back to the other, more irritated, twin, "No, Stanford, you don't get a choice in the matter."

The man's face flushes red and his expression twists into something mulish. "Excuse me?! Just wh-"

"Enough!" Ford barks. He's a bit surprised when Stanford snaps his mouth shut and stares at him like he's seen a ghost. He hadn't expected such a reaction. In fact, he hadn't expected it to work at all, but he'll take it. "There's no way for you to treat that shoulder properly on your own. I've already given Stanley his choice of task, and that means you're stuck with me." Ford reclaims the first aid kit from the floor and stands up. "Now, do you think you can make it to the bathroom under your own power, or do I need to assist you there?"

There is a beat of complete silence wherein both twins stare up at him, apparently stunned.

Then Stanford finds his voice again and grumbles, "It's my shoulder, not my legs."

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	3. Cut From the Same Cloth

In the end, although he does make it into the elevator on his own, he is forced to rely on the stranger - other Stanford - his brother's copy - whatever he's supposed to refer to the new guy as - to help him the rest of the way to their destination. It's humiliating, but there's no getting around it after the adrenaline in his system fades. The two of them manage to stumble into the house's only bathroom without leaving _too_ much of a mess behind them. (Stan is sure his brother will complain over the stacks of books and loose papers they knocked over, regardless.)

"Alright," the other man says upon entering the room, "first things first. We're going to have to get you out of those clothes."

Stan stifles another groan as the man helps him sit down on the edge of the bathtub. "Moving kinda fast here, buddy," he manages.

The jibe sails right over the imposter's head. "No sense in wasting time, Stanford," the man says without looking up from the first aid kit he has begun rifling through. Various supplies get set on the countertop beside the sink. He tisks irritably. "The kit's not as well stocked as I'd hoped," he announces, "There's not a drop of any sort of disinfectant left in it. Not to worry, though, I'm fairly certain I know where to find a substitute." The kit is snapped shut and the other Stanford turns to face him with a pair of scissors in hand.

Stan shifts and almost falls into the tub before he can correct his balance. "What are those for?" he asks. He's been to prison more times than he cares to admit, and he's seen things far less conspicuous than scissors used to end a man's life before his time.

The other rolls his eyes. "The clothes are ruined, anyway."

Oh. Well then. "Not the jacket."

The resulting confused frown is both familiar and alien; probably because the face it's on is both familiar and alien. "It will be better to avoid putting any unneeded strain on that shoulder, and the jacket is hardly worth saving with a hole that large in it."

"Not. The jacket," Stan insists. It's the only one he's got and it's literally freezing outside. The inside of Lee's little woodland cabin doesn't feel like it's too far above the freezing point either, for that matter. "I'll slap a patch on it or whatever. It can be fixed."

The other Stanford holds his chin in one hand and purses his lips in a familiar way. It is beyond strange to see the older version of his _twin_ behave so much like, well, _Lee_ when his actual twin has been acting weird since the moment Stan had shown up. ...And had likely been acting weird for a while before Stan had shown up, too, now that he thought about it.

"I would feel better if we didn't move that shoulder any more than is absolutely necessary," he says after a moment spent contemplating, "What if I offered you another jacket in its place?"

Stan eyes his brother's counterpart doubtfully. Ever since they became teenagers (and had gone through all the joys of puberty that those years had brought with them) Stan has been broader in the shoulders than Lee; it doesn't help matters that over the intervening years Stan's put on more than a few pounds. A clothes swap doesn't seem too promising from where he's sitting. "Not sure your clothes would fit me, Poindexter." Oh, he hadn't meant to say that last bit.

"You might be surprised, Knucklehead," Stanford replies with a shrug, "The one I have in mind is large on me; I'm fairly certain it will be just fine for you."

"Yeesh, any blunter and you'd just be calling me fat to my face."

"Well, you're not exactly in shape, but I somehow doubt attacking your weight will make you any more an agreeable patient. Now, about the jacket... ?"

"Oi," Stan makes a show of rubbing his chest over his heart, "don't pull any punches, do you?"

The other releases an exasperated sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stanl- Stanford," he corrects himself quickly, "this is getting off topic. Will you allow me to cut off your damaged jacket if I provide you with a replacement for it?"

A small part of him warns that he should demand to see this replacement before agreeing to the trade; but a larger part of him has already accepted the fact that no matter how weird the whole situation is (no matter how stupid it is to trust someone that is still technically a stranger, no matter that things between him and Lee have been a mess for nearly twelve years now) this alternate-Stanley is already starting to feel like family, and family is something Stan hasn't had in _years_. It's not a wholly comforting notion, all things considered, but Stan's not willing to push it away just yet, either. "Yeah, okay. It's a deal."

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	4. Past and Present Demons

Ford grimaces at the younger man's choice of words. "It might be for the best if you didn't say 'deal' around your brother. Or me for that matter. It's associated with some... unfortunate experiences."

Stanford frowns up at him, but thankfully he doesn't press the issue. "...Right. Let's get this over with."

Ford sits down next to Stanford on the edge of the tub before making quick work of cutting up both the jacket and the shirt underneath it. Teasing the cheap, melted fabric away from the injury proves to be a bit more of an ordeal, but they manage to get through it without causing too much additional damage. Ford tisks as he examines the wound critically. "I expected a large second-degree burn, but this might even be considered third-degree. You ought to be treated in a hospital."

"You aren't seriously telling me you can't patch me up _after_ you cut my jacket to ribbons, are you?" Stanford says as he looks over his shoulder to glare at Ford.

Ford waves a dismissive hand. "Of course I can treat it," he says, absently kicking the aforementioned, ruined clothing out of his way before standing. "It's just that a hospital would have better equipment and a burn ward could provide a higher level of care. On the other hand, there's a blizzard going on outside and Gravity Falls doesn't have its own hospital, anyway - let alone one with a decent burn ward." He turns the taps on and holds a hand under the spray of the shower. "That's about right," he announces after a few seconds spent fussing over the temperature.

"Yeesh, that's cold," Stanford gripes. Ford looks over in time to watch the other man flick water from his fingertips. "What's the big idea? Trying to freeze me to death, now?"

Ford rolls his eyes. "It isn't _that_ cold, and it will only be for the first..." he allows himself a small hum as he contemplates, "twenty minutes or so? After that, you can adjust it as you see fit. Just remember to keep your shoulder out of the direct spray but under the flow of the water. And after you change the temperature, make sure to keep the water away from the burn. After all, the goal is to draw the residual heat out of the injury, not add to it."

He makes it to the doorway before Stanford calls after him, "Hey! Where are you going?"

The scientist looks back over his shoulder and raises both eyebrows at his brother's counterpart. "To get a bottle of disinfectant," he glances upward in thought before adding, "and another for painkiller, I suppose. Your bag is by the front door, right? I may as well gather that too."

"Oh. Uh, yeah, I -"

"Alright, then. I figure now's as good a time as any to go retrieve them." He smirks. "Unless, of course, you're afraid you're going to slip in the tub like a little, old lady and want me to stay?"

"Why, you!" Stanford sputters and grabs a bar of soap off the edge of the bathtub.

Already safely in the hallway, Ford gives an amused snort as the soap flies through the bathroom's still open door. "Give a shout if you need anything, Stanford," he says while walking toward the stairs, "otherwise, I'll be back after I've found what I'm looking for."

"That's right! Run, you ancient nerd!" the younger man yells back, "I'd feed you a knuckle sandwich, if I wasn't afraid it would break your old-man dentures!"

Ford smothers the laughter trying to escape his throat.

Pestering his brother's counterparts is something he enjoys doing, but it's generally a better idea not to push too far too quickly and he's likely gone as far as he should for the moment. After all, traveling the multiverse has taught him that no matter how closely any of the varied versions of his brother (or anyone else, for that matter) he runs into appear to the one of his home dimension, they are just that: varied. Not all of them have the same temperament as his brother, and forgetting that for even a second can be... detrimental.

Still, this dimension is looking more and more like his own; so he has a fairly good idea on where he'll be able to find that makeshift antiseptic he'd promised.

Ford more or less ransacks the entire ground floor of the house. In the end, after emptying out several caches (hidden in seemingly every other nook and cranny available; some of which Ford had once used for the same purpose, and others he is certain he never did) the forty-two-year-old finds himself staring down a collection of no less than twenty-seven different bottles clustered together on a desk in Stanley's study.

The scientist scratches his head, somewhat chagrin and slightly concerned. "Did I really have this much of a problem? Going through withdrawal had been an eye-opener, of course, but this..." He doesn't recall ever having so much at hand at any one point, but he'd never actually stopped to take stock before, either. It's possible Stanley doesn't have so much as a drop more squirreled away than _Ford_ had in his own home at the time he'd been pushed through the portal. More disturbing still is the realization that he hasn't even checked the second floor and attic yet. Ford groans, closes his eyes, and pushes his glasses up a bit as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know I was a mess, but I really hope this is a difference between dimensions," he says to the empty room.

The man pulls his hand away with a sigh. "Nothing for it now," he mutters and considers the gathered bottles with a critical eye. "One for antiseptic," he says as he selects one of the alcoholic beverages out of the assortment in front of him, "and one for painkiller." He snatches a half-emptied, second bottle off the desk as well. He considers the remaining bottles assembled before him for a moment. He should probably do something about them, but there will be time for that later. For now, he should be getting back to Stanford.

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	5. Compare and Contrast

"I'm coming in," Ford announces loudly several steps away from the still open bathroom door.

"Yeah, yeah," his twin's counterpart answers gruffly, seemingly unconcerned.

Ford finds the other man sitting in a tub full of water, not standing under the spray of the shower. He frowns faintly in concern and can't help wondering if there might be more taxing this Stanford's strength than just the burn. He can only hope he hadn't left his own twin this weak all those years ago when he'd left his home dimension. "Bath time's over, Knucklehead," he says, tossing the towel he'd nearly forgotten to retrieve at the other Stanford's head. The duffel bag he'd also been carrying gets a more gentle treatment as he sets it down on the floor.

The younger man catches the makeshift projectile with his good arm and Ford belatedly realizes how foolish it had been to throw it in the first place. Stanford could have easily aggravated the burn further if he'd tried to use his other arm, instead. "'Bath time?'" the man asks with a snort, "How old do you think I am? Five?"

Ford shrugs, unzips the bag, and pulls out the bottles. "Twenty-nine. Perhaps a little older or younger, depending on how closely this universe lines up with the one I come from," he answers honestly. He turns around, placing one bottle on the counter and holding the other up, "Shall we get this over with?"

Stanford looks at the alcohol and then him with a growing grimace. "I don't suppose that's for drinking?" he tries.

Ford smirks. "No, but I'm willing to share the other one, provided you don't manage to convince me you really are a five-year-old over the next few minutes."

The naked man glares at him. "You're hilarious." Stanford turns his back and adds, "Just do it already."

The following minutes contain a fair amount of cussing, a drained bathtub, yards worth of bandages, and two disgruntled Stanfords.

"That will do, I suppose," Ford says as he inspects the bandages wrapped around the other man's torso and over his shoulder with a critical eye.

"I feel like I'm halfway to being a damn mummy," the younger Pines grouses.

Ford rolls his eyes as he stands up and grabs the other bottle he'd brought with him. He takes a swig before offering the rest to his reluctant patient.

Stanford accepts the bottle but doesn't drink. The man narrows his eyes and says, "You owe me a jacket."

"You're still worried about that?" Ford asks, brows raised.

The other man's mouth twitches into a frown as he admits, "I only had the one."

"Ah," he answers, "I see." He slides Stanford's duffel bag over to the man and then rifles through his own bag for the promised article of clothing. He can hear Stanford shift behind him, likely attempting to get dressed. "Don't strain that shoulder," he cautions automatically.

"Ugn, I got it already. Stop nagging."

The backpack looks deceptively small from the outside, thanks to technology likely to remain undiscovered in this dimension for centuries yet, and it takes him a few minutes of searching to find the generally unused item that he'd promised to hand over. Finally locating the garment, Ford turns to find Stanford fighting a shirt. He reaches out to help without thought. Stanford tenses for a split-second before relaxing.

"I had it," Stanford grumbles while Ford continues to exam his twin's counterpart, "You fuss worse than Ma."

"Perhaps," Ford allows. Satisfied that Stanford's clothes are at least mostly in order, he turns his attention to the jacket he'd fished out of the depths of his backpack. It's a bit wrinkled. Or maybe a lot, he realizes with some chagrin as he tries to shake out and then smooth the material over his legs. He adjusts a few zippers and straps before finally helping Stanford into the jacket.

"Well, damn," Stanford says in surprise, "That's a good fit!"

Ford smirks. "It ought to be. It's custom."

Eyes wide, Stanford asks, "No. Really? Why do _you_ have something custom-made for _me_? ...Some version of me? Whatever. You know what I mean."

"It was a gift," Ford says as he goes over the straps on the back one more time, loosening some and tightening others, "And if you think I 'fuss' too much over a twin that isn't even mine, you should have met _him_."

"What's with all the extra stuff on the back?" Stanford wonders as Ford finishes up.

Ford grins. "The Stan of that particular dimension had wings, large ones, similar to those of an eagle or hawk," he reveals, "It wasn't a common mutation in his dimension, but it wasn't unheard of, either."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," Ford confirms, "He thought I was his twin at first and was more than a little distraught over my _lack_ of wings. Even after clearing up the mistaken identity, he tended to hover and worry. Considering that from his perspective, I was missing a few limbs, well, it was understandable - if a bit patronizing."

"There's a me out there with hawk-wings," Stanford says in borderline disbelief and finally takes a drink from the bottle Ford had passed to him, "What _other_ me's have you met?"

"Most of them I've encountered haven't been so obviously different from my Stan," Ford admits, before musing, "Though the Stan of Dimension Seven was actually a changeling and never human to begin with. And the Stan I met in Dimension Twenty-Three did manage to get himself cursed and transformed into a gargoyle. I wonder if they ever succeeded in reversing that."

"Wait, wait! Like those ugly statues on old buildings?" the younger man asks with wide eyes.

"The creatures the architecture is based off of, yes."

Stanford gulps down another mouthful of the drink in his hand. "Tell me more."

* * *

 **Credit where credit is due:**

Winged Stan I'm counting as more of an inevitability than being created by anyone in particular. (You don't get points for something as overdone as the Winged Humanoid Trope unless you at least add something else to make it memorable.)

Changeling Stan/Never Human AU was created by Llors on tumblr.

Gargoyle Stan/Monsterfalls AU is pretty wide spread and I'm not sure who actually started it. (Sorry.) **Edit:** Oh, why not? Shameless self-promotion, but Ford was specifically referring to the Stan from "Guardian," which is one of my _AO3 exclusive_ stories. (It can be found at: archiveofourown dot org slash works slash 7769266)

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